Wild Winter
by Maddie Rose
Summary: Angelika Umber seeks to undo the damage done in the North - but she plays a dangerous game. She would go against Ramsay Bolton, against her own father, Smalljon - all for a cause and a house that the North once believed in: the Starks. Her grandfather the Greatjon once told Angelika there can be no courage without fear...which is just as well, because she is terrified. Jon Snow/OC.
1. Lord of Last Hearth

**Chapter One: Lord of Last Hearth**

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 **A/N: I know what you're thinking...she's writing ANOTHER Game of Thrones story?! This one starts in Season 6, and will focus on House Umber...at least at the beginning ;) I only own Angelika and Regan. Don't be afraid to leave feedback, I'd love to hear what you think of it so far.**

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Most people despised the darkness and solemnity of the crypts, but Angelika Umber welcomed it. She knew her father would chastise her for visiting the crypts _again_. Angelika lay a raven's feather over her grandfather's tombstone, examining his carved stone likeness. In life, Jon Umber – known as the Greatjon – had been a fierce and proud man, yet a loyal one. The stone captured none of his ferocity, giving him instead the impression of a coldness that he had not possessed, at least not towards Angelika.

He had not been there for the Red Wedding, and of that Angelika was eternally grateful. The tales of the horrific slaughter that had occurred at the Twins had spread all over Westeros, and she was pleased that Greatjon had been spared that sort of butchery. Instead, he had died in a more peaceful manner. She would never have guessed that it would be the bitter cold and a nasty illness that would take her grandfather from this world, but that had been how Greatjon had died: in the comfort of his own bed, in the northernmost castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

But then, _had_ it been an illness? Angelika had her own suspicions, especially considering the current circumstances at Last Hearth. Only a few months prior to her grandfather's sickness, a wildling woman calling herself Osha had arrived, with a young boy she claimed to be Rickon Stark. Of course, none of the Umbers had believed her, until they saw the direwolf that accompanied the pair. There could be no doubting the direwolf was Shaggydog, and therefore the boy with Osha had to be Rickon.

While Greatjon had welcomed them into his home, his son and Angelika's father, Smalljon Umber, had not been pleased. The Boltons now held Winterfell, they were Wardens of the North. The two men had had many an argument about the matter, about what to do with Rickon Stark, and then Greatjon had fallen ill. Angelika had been at his bedside as often as possible, and now she was by his crypt as much as she could.

A chill travelled down her spine, and Angelika shivered, wrapping her thick furs closer around her body. Winter was almost here, and it was said Last Hearth was one of the coldest places in Westeros because of how far north it was. Taking one last look at her grandfather's statue, and then swept out of the crypts.

Everything outside was covered in snow, and the pale white made Angelika shield her eyes, wincing at the brightness. Things had changed a lot around Last Hearth since Greatjon's passing and Smalljon becoming its lord. Angelika had never been overly close with her father – he had been barely older than her when she had been born, and her mother had died from complications with the birth – and had instead spent most of her younger years closely following her grandfather's example. It was very clear to Angelika, both as a child and now at the age of nineteen, that her father had been bitterly disappointed that his heir was a girl.

"Have you been in the crypts again?" Smalljon Umber strode over to his daughter. Like his father before him, he wore the four chains linked by a central ring that was their house's sigil. Angelika wondered what kind of idiot their ancestor was to think chains as a sigil would send any sort of message to allies or enemies.

"Yes, Father," Angelika responded as he stopped in front of her, chains jingling as he crossed his arms over his chest. She didn't remember her mother, but assumed she must share some resemblance to her, as she and Smalljon looked nothing alike. Smalljon was a tall, broad-shouldered man with piercing blue eyes and greying black hair. Angelika was perhaps five and a half feet at tallest, with honey blonde hair and eyes the colour of warm wood.

"Come inside out of the cold." Smalljon caught his daughter's wrist and tugged her towards the keep. She frowned, but obediently followed him inside and positioned herself in front of the warm hearth. The flames eased the chill that felt as if it had seeped into her very bones. Her father took his seat at the table and called for Dornish mulled wine, leading Angelika to glance over her shoulder at him. That wine was reserved for special occasions, as Smalljon had chastised her when she had wanted some with dinner.

"You don't visit the crypt," Angelika pointed out. It was clear to anyone at Last Hearth that the two Umber men had had a strained relationship before Greatjon's death, but she was still disappointed that her father hadn't made much of an effort to mourn the older man's passing.

"Why should I?" Smalljon's brow creased into a frown, before he raised his mug to his lips and gulped down some of the mulled wine. He slammed his mug down with a satisfied sigh. "My father was a stubborn old fucker. Always thought he knew best. Look where that's got us."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead," Angelika chastised, crossing over to the table and pouring herself some mulled wine too. If her father was partaking, then it was only fair that she took advantage of this rare opportunity.

"There's no harm in telling the truth." Smalljon threw her a contemptuous look. "He chose to serve Robb Stark. Now the Starks are dead."

"Not all of them," Angelika reminded him. She didn't like how her father spoke about Greatjon. Her grandfather had been a loyal and honourable man despite his temper, and she thought her father could have learned a lot from him. He had bent the knee to Robb Stark and yes, Robb and his mother were very much dead, but that didn't mean it had been wrong to serve them.

Angelika had learned much from her grandfather in any case. As it had become apparent that she would be her father's only child and therefore his heir, Greatjon had decided that it was wise for her to learn basic self-defence. Greatjon's late wife and Angelika's grandmother had been from House Mormont, where women as warriors were not uncommon in the slightest. If Angelika was ever to be Lady of Last Hearth, he'd said, she may need to learn to stab a vexing man where it counted.

Those lessons with the Greatjon were some of her most cherished memories. Smalljon hadn't much to say on the matter, so he had allowed his daughter to be trained in basic manouevres. Angelika would never be a soldier, but she knew where to hit a man so it hurt, where to stab someone to kill them quickly. The North could be a savage place, and particularly in the War of the Five Kings, Angelika needed to be prepared to be as efficient a leader as possible.

"I'm still undecided what to do with the boy," Smalljon announced, leaning back in his chair. His words caused Angelika to cease warming her hands over the flames and look at him, alarmed. What did he mean by that? It was their responsibility to protect Rickon until he came of an age to take back Winterfell. They owed their previous liege lords, Eddard and then Robb, that much at least.

"Well, he'd stay here," Angelika said as though it was obvious. She had thought that it _was_ obvious.

"We'll see." The chair creaked as Smalljon pushed himself back from the table. "We're having a guest for dinner tonight. Make sure you dress nicely."

"Guest?" Angelika repeated. It wasn't common for them to have visitors – most lords and ladies of the North couldn't be bothered travelling to the northernmost part, and most of them were busy fighting a war in any case. She couldn't fathom who might possibly be coming to visit them.

"Don't ask questions, Angelika." Smalljon jabbed an accusatory finger in her direction, before trailing out of the dining hall, leaving his daughter perplexed and more than a little worried.

* * *

"Do you know who this guest is?" Angelika called from the steaming hot tub as she relished the heat of the water as it lapped against her skin. Her hair was pinned back so that she didn't get it wet, neck craned back and eyes closed. She wished that she never had to get out of the water, but knew sooner or later she'd have to because it would go cold eventually and Smalljon and their guest would be waiting downstairs.

"No, my lady," Moira, Angelika's maid, handed her a towel. Condemning herself to the fact that she was going to have to prepare for dinner, Angelika eased herself out of the tub and wrapped the towel around her frame.

She wondered if perhaps her father was entertaining a suitor for her. It wouldn't be the first time, but in the past, Greatjon had overrode him as Lord of Last Hearth, deeming all of Smalljon's choices as inappropriate for his granddaughter. Now that Greatjon was dead, only Smalljon's decision mattered.

"That's unfortunate," Angelika muttered, watching Moira's nimble hands as the maid helped her into her dress for the evening.

She was nearing twenty now, certainly at an age where she should be married. As the future Lady of Last Hearth, she was apparently a desirable prospect to some. She was not a vain girl, but she knew that she was pretty – not as beautiful as the likes of Sansa Stark or Margaery Tyrell, from all she had heard about them, but pretty enough. She had curves too, and she remembered fondly her Greatjon cuffing a man or two for looking too long at her cleavage. The thought made her smirk.

No matter what dress Angelika wore, be it plain or be it as pretty as the one she wore tonight, she always accompanied it with her sturdy black boots. It wasn't a decision made because of any desire to be fashionable, but because they were the only shoes she owned that she could slip her sheathed dagger down. It was a safety precaution, but her grandfather had always warned her that the moment you need a weapon is the moment you don't have one, so she kept her dagger on her person as often as was practical.

Angelika had coiled her blonde hair atop her head and even now smoothed out the wrinkles in her favourite deep red dress as she descended the stairs into the dining hall, wondering who this mysterious guest was. She could see the head of a man talking to her father at the table, but it was only once his gaze turned to her that she recognised him to be Harald Karstark, the Lord of Karhold. Harald's father had been executed by Robb Stark and the Karstarks had opposed the Starks ever since, so his presence was not a welcome sign.

"Lord Karstark." Angelika bowed her head slightly as Harald got to his feet. He was around her father's age, with beady eyes and a close-cropped beard. His eyes roamed her form, and she glared across at Smalljon. This was either about Rickon or about a marriage proposal, and either way, she was furious.

"Angelika." Harald took her hand without asking her permission and kissed the back of it. His lips felt like spiders on her skin, and she resisted the urge to snatch her hand away. "The last time I saw you was right before the War of the Five Kings. How old were you then, fourteen? You have blossomed into a fine young woman since."

"Thank you," Angelika responded stiffly. She seated herself beside her father and began cutting up her food. She also indulged herself in the mulled wine, because she had the feeling that she was going to need it whichever way this conversation with Harald Karstark went.

The discussion, which Angelika did her best to tune out of, was mostly regarding the Boltons. What the two men thought of him, how much of a little prick Ramsay was. Angelika had never met Ramsay, but she had heard of him. Apparently he was a sadist who enjoyed setting dogs on people, hunting them down for fun. He had recently been married to Sansa Stark, and Angelika found herself pitying the girl immensely. She was only a year younger than Angelika.

"I see you've taken a liking to my daughter, Karstark." Smalljon's words caused Angelika's head to jerk up, eyes darting between the two men. There was a smirk across Smalljon's lips as he stared down Harald. "Intending on making her Lady Karstark?"

"I couldn't say, Umber," Harald responded smoothly, but his gaze had drifted to Angelika now. He wasn't leering at her, but she still didn't like the way he was looking at her. She didn't like the way they were talking about her as if she wasn't even there. Pushing herself to her feet, she forced a smile and glanced between them.

"Forgive me, but I'm more tired than I'd first thought." Angelika turned her gaze upon her father, pressing her lips into a thin line to indicate her displeasure. "Goodnight."

She gathered her skirts and marched upstairs, as the two men continued to talk in low voices like nothing had just happened, as if she'd never even been there. It didn't matter, because Angelika didn't find them good company – there was someone else she would much rather talk to in any case.

* * *

Officially, Regan Snow was a fourteen-year-old stable boy whose parentage no one was aware of. Unofficially, Regan was the bastard son of Smalljon Umber and a pretty kitchen servant he'd taken a fancy to when Angelika had been a small child. No one doubted the fact that Smalljon was the boy's father – while Angelika had her mother's golden looks, Regan had the same blue eyes and dark hair as his father.

Although Smalljon wouldn't acknowledge Regan as his, Angelika was fiercely protective of the boy. In truth, she wondered if her father denied his parentage because even had he been legitimate, he would not have made a strong heir. Regan was a sweet, sensitive boy who loved books and poetry more than swords and spears – and of course, he loved the horses he worked with.

"Hello, Regan." Angelika leant against one of the stalls, watching as her half-brother finished up work for the evening. It had only been recently that she had trusted Regan enough to tell him her suspicion of Smalljon being his father. She had urged him not to mention it around others, but still privately referred to him as her brother.

"Lady Angelika." Regan turned to face her, glancing around to check if they were alone. She had insisted that he didn't need to use her title when it was only the two of them. "I…I thought you'd have been at dinner with Lord Umber and Lord Karstark."

"I was." Angelika seated herself on a bale of hay, no longer bothering to be regal and composed. She wished that she was dressed more casually to make Regan feel more comfortable – yet over the past few months since finding out his parentage, he had been more relaxed in her presence in any case. "Unfortunately, the dinner conversation wasn't to my liking, so I thought I'd come and see you."

"They say Ramsay Bolton's a bastard, like me." Regan chewed at his lip thoughtfully. "But he isn't a good man. I've heard the stories about him. His father Roose doesn't sound wonderful either. How can people be happy with them having betrayed the Starks and become Wardens of the North?"

"A lot of people aren't happy," Angelika murmured. Greatjon had hated what had happened, hated the Boltons for betraying the Starks. He had never voiced it so openly, yet he had also never bent the knee. Now that Smalljon was the Lord of Last Hearth, things were different. Yet Angelika knew that she, like Regan, was displeased with how events had panned out in the North.

"I wish I could help somehow." Regan sighed, leaning back against a stall and tilting his head back. Angelika couldn't help but be startled about how much like Smalljon he looked in the dim lighting. His mother, who still worked in the kitchens, had left little of herself in her son. "But I mean, I'm just a bastard boy who works in the stables."

"Everyone counts for something," Angelika responded sharply. Her stomach lurched at the thought of Regan being involved in this war in any way, and she felt the familiar desire to protect him, to shield this innocent child from all the horrors of the world. Nobody would think twice about hurting a bastard boy, and Angelika knew that for all Regan's sweetness, he would be snuffed out like a candle if he ever tried to stand against the Boltons.

"I want to do more," Regan insisted.

"No, you don't." Angelika got to her feet, gripping Regan firmly by the shoulders. He was already taller than her, but she spoke with the sternness of an older sibling. "The violence, the politics…it's not something you need to know about. As long as you are safe and keep your head down, that is the only thing that matters. Do you understand?"

Regan blinked at her firm tone, but then nodded. Angelika couldn't help but throw her arms around him and hold her close, overwhelmed by emotion for a moment. Regan was the only family member she had left that she truly cared about. Smalljon was…they were complicated. They were never going to be close or get on, and Angelika had known that for years. Regan was different. He might not be acknowledged by their father, but that didn't make him any less her brother.

"Keep my head down," Regan muttered, drawing back and nodding slowly. "Got it."

* * *

There was a commotion outside the night after Harald Karstark left Last Hearth. Yelling in the courtyard roused Angelika from her bed. She wrapped some furs around her, thoroughly annoyed that her sleep had been disrupted, and stormed downstairs. There seemed to be some sort of tussle going on, but it was the blood staining the dirt that made Angelika pause, wondering exactly what she had stumbled across.

"Be careful!" Smalljon roared at his men from where he was standing a little away from the chaos, armed folded over his chest. "My father lost a fucking hand to a beast like that one."

Angelika realised then that the men were struggling with a direwolf – Shaggydog, to be specific. They were attempting to hold the direwolf still, but the creature was panicking and therefore it was taking all of their strength. Smalljon strode over to them, shoving one man out of the way and raising his sword. It was in that brief, terrible moment that Angelika understood – but then Smalljon brought the sword down, and there was a short yelp as the beast was decapitated.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Angelika cried, resisting the urge to scream. The men's attention was drawn to her, but Smalljon was calm as he wiped the gore from his sword before sheathing it again. He marched over to his daughter, grabbing her arm and half-dragging her back inside the hall as the men cleaned up the mess of the direwolf's body. She tried to tear away from him, tried to hit at him, but Smalljon simply tossed her into a chair.

"Do you understand the consequences of harbouring a fugitive from the Boltons, girl?" Smalljon demanded. He was a man known for his size, but Angelika hadn't realised how big her father was until he loomed over her now. There were so many thoughts and questions burning in her mind, but her lips didn't seem to want to form words.

"You killed the direwolf," Angelika murmured.

"Rickon Stark and that beast's head are going to the Boltons," Smalljon declared, and Angelika felt dread clutch at her with its cold hands. Rickon was the only living trueborn Stark, and a threat to the Boltons' rule in the North. Ramsay would certainly kill him, and he was only a boy, even younger than Regan.

"You're a traitor," Angelika snarled, unable to conceal her anger. If Greatjon was alive, he never would have stood for such treachery. He never would have allowed a child to be led to such a terrible family, like a lamb to the slaughter. Fury flashed in Smalljon's eyes, and Angelika's head cracked to the side as he struck her across the face. She touched her cheek with shaking fingers. She and her father had heated disputes, but he had never hit her before.

"If we were found to be hiding the Stark boy, we would be burned to the fucking ground!" Smalljon hissed. "You don't know anything if you don't know that. What would you prefer, Angelika? That we decided to be fucking noble about this? Robb Stark was noble, and he's dead."

Angelika remained silent. Her father had clearly made his mind up about the matter, and she didn't know what she could possibly say to counter it. In some ways, his argument made sense. But Angelika thought she would rather put up a bit of a fight than let the Boltons walk all over her. Something about her father's words made her frown.

"Ramsay? Don't you mean Roose?"

"No, I mean Ramsay." Smalljon paced back and forth agitatedly. "Roose is dead, haven't you been paying any attention? Ramsay is the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and he's a sadistic little prick…but we can gain things from him. Do you know what Ramsay would do to you if we double crossed him?"

"I…" Angelika couldn't find words. Ramsay was the new Warden of the North? A sadistic bastard with no finesse to speak of? He was a dangerous man, she knew that much. But what he'd do to her? She had no idea. Probably flay her. The thought made her shudder.

" _Do you_?" Smalljon thundered, and continued for her when she remained speechless. "A homely girl he'd probably loose his dogs on, let them do the work for him. But you're as pretty as your mother was, and since Ramsay's wife is currently nowhere to be found…I'd say he'd use you to warm his bed, until he grows tired of you."

Angelika wished she could block out the awful things Smalljon was saying, but there was something grim in his eyes and no malice in his tone. This was honesty, the brutal truth of what would happen to her if they were found out to be betraying Ramsay Bolton. The thought of what might happen to her…it frightened her. But it also made her all the more determined to evade that fate, and not simply by giving in.

She was learning more through this conversation, too. She wondered if she just hadn't been paying attention, or if Smalljon had neglected to tell her. Sansa Stark had escaped Winterfell. She would be looking for allies, people to support her. If the Stark siblings were reunited…but Angelika knew her father would hear nothing of that. His mind was already made up.

"Prepare yourself," Smalljon said gruffly, eyeing his daughter's reddening cheek with remorse. "We leave for Winterfell tomorrow."

He strode out of the hall, and Angelika eased her shaking frame out of the chair. She couldn't believe that her father was going to do this, but she had to believe it, because that was the harsh reality. Smalljon didn't much care for the Starks. He didn't much care for the Boltons either. He only cared about himself, and saving his own hide.

Angelika might have been born a girl. She might never be a soldier. But she had the heart of a fighter, and she would not bow down to this cruel bastard who mutilated and tortured for fun. She had no choice but to accompany her father to Winterfell – but the trip would take a few days, and it would leave Angelika a lot of time to plot.


	2. When Winter Fell

**Chapter Two: When Winter Fell**

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 **A/N: Whoa guys, I really wasn't expecting that kind of response to the first chapter! Thank you so much. I'm really hoping this next chapter maintains your interest in Angelika's story - she will be meeting Jon fairly soon, but what's happening with her now is very important to her story ;)**

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Angelika had been absolutely outraged when it turned out that Regan was to accompany them to Winterfell. This was not keeping his head down, as she had firmly instructed. This was getting involved, but Smalljon had seen that the bastard boy had purpose during this journey. Angelika hoped, with all the naivety of a child, that maybe her father wanted his unclaimed son to see more of the North. But she knew that the Smalljon rarely wasted a moment's thought on the boy, and that all of Angelika's attempts to get him to confess were met with outrage.

"It's bloody cold," Regan declared as he sat on the back of one of the carts, swinging his legs back and forth and examining his surroundings with wonder. Angelika knew that if there were such pure and uncorrupted creatures as her brother, they were few. Regan was a boy without malice or ill intent. It made him vulnerable, and very much in need of the fierce protection Angelika rained down upon him.

Angelika was riding on horseback, which had caused an argument with her father. Smalljon had insisted that she be shut in the wheelhouse for the duration of their journey, but she knew that she would feel claustrophobic and want to stretch her limbs. Perhaps it was the Mormont blood in her veins, the same blood she shared with her father but that he seemed to show very little of. She shook her head at Regan's words.

"Winterfell isn't that far south, you know. It'd be warm in, say, King's Landing. But up here it feels like forever winter."

Regan wasn't the only person on the cart, but he was the only one who wasn't bound with a hessian sack over his head. The boy's companions – Rickon and Osha – were far less cheerful, and disturbingly silent. Angelika nudged her horse forward so that she could ride beside the cart, making sure that her father was busy so that she wouldn't be chastised for talking to them.

"Rickon? Do you know who I am?" Her voice was gentle for the child's sake.

"Don't listen to her," Osha warned him, and if Angelika were to remove the sack from the woman's head she had no doubt the wildling would shoot her a ferocious glare. "She'll just fill your head with lies. We can't trust any of them."

"Say what you like," Angelika said coolly, having no patience for Osha at present. "But I am not my father. My grandfather, Greatjon, he sheltered you. I want to help you both. I won't let them hurt you, I promise."

"Stupid girl," Osha sneered, her voice slightly muffled through the sack. "You and what army? You think you can stop them if they wanted to kill us?"

"I'd help," Regan offered.

Angelika shot him a poisonous look. Although she could understand Regan getting involved, he had to remember what she'd told him, damn it. He remembered himself and bowed his head, lapsing into silence. Angelika hated having to pull rank on him, but the fact of the matter was that she was legitimate and he was not. If she gave him a command, he would have to obey. The only commands she had ever given Regan were for his own wellbeing.

"You're right, I have no army," Angelika admitted, "But at least I am _trying_ , which is a lot more than the rest of the North is currently doing. They cower in front of the Boltons, but I won't."

Osha laughed, but the sound was without mirth. It was a sound that sent shivers running up Angelika's spine.

"I've heard things about Ramsay Bolton, girl, and I've seen you. Pretty little thing like you, he'd devour you."

"Don't talk to her like that," Regan snapped. He was young, but old enough to know what Osha meant. Angelika knew that talk of Ramsay having her made him uncomfortable and angry. His thin frame had tensed, hands balled into fists. If it came to it, Regan would fight Ramsay to keep Angelika from his bed, even though it was stupid and suicidal.

"It's alright, Regan." Her little brother didn't know where she kept her knives. Few did. It would be more of a surprise that way when there came a time when she needed to use them. Regan was still glaring fiercely at Osha, despite the fact that the wildling woman couldn't see him.

"Do you see it?" Angelika pointed into the distance. Even through the sprinkling of snow falling around them, the towers of Winterfell were visible on the horizon. Her stomach knotted up, and she realised that she was actually nervous. Yet she had every right to be – the Boltons were a twisted family, and Ramsay was ten times worse than his father if the rumours were true.

* * *

Angelika did not like any of this, yet she had no choice but to accompany her father and his men into the great hall of Winterfell. She remembered coming here as a child, although she had been quite small. Greatjon had propped her on his lap and laughed loudly as she scoffed food from his plate. He was a man with a booming voice, a man who could never fail to be heard. So little Angelika had been embarrassed when he'd declared that she had the manners of a piglet. He'd meant it in jest, of course, but she had been so keen on impressing the Starks at the time. Now the Starks were dead or in hiding.

Ramsay Bolton sat at the table, and Angelika frowned when she saw Harald Karstark sitting beside him. The Bolton boy himself unnerved her – sharp, bright blue eyes and a keen, watchful expression. As Smalljon approached, Angelika found herself lingering back. She had no desire to present herself to this monster. At her father's meaningful look, she reluctantly moved forward.

"Who is this young lady?" Ramsay's eyes raked over her, and Angelika clenched her jaw and resisted the urge to take out a knife and stab him in the eye. The gleam in his eyes made her feel like she had rolled in mud, but she held her head high and maintained her composure. She would not be intimidated by this bastard.

"Angelika Umber, my lord. I'm Lord Umber's daughter."

"She's a pretty one," Ramsay said, addressing Smalljon. Angelika felt furious that she was just seen as a desirable object, that he'd barely acknowledged her presence and was now speaking about her like she wasn't even there. "But do tell me, why are you here, Lord Umber? The Umbers are a famously loyal house."

"Famously loyal to the Starks," Harald sneered, taking a sip of his wine. It never failed to surprise Angelika how much of a little worm the man was, wriggling from one northern house to the next, spreading gossip like the plague.

"And you, Lord Karstark?" Smalljon turned the conversation back onto him. "Your people share blood with the Starks, don't they? But here we are. Times change."

Ramsay clasped his hands in front of him. "When my father became Warden of the North, your house refused to pledge their banners."

"Your father was a cunt," Smalljon said bluntly. The words caused Angelika's head to whip to the side as she looked at him incredulously. What was he doing? His words could have them executed on the spot. Ramsay was nodding slowly, looking like he was attempting to suppress a smile.

"My beloved father, the Warden…"

"Your father was a cunt," Smalljon interrupted. "That's why you killed him. I might've done the same to my father, if he hadn't have done me the favour of dying on his own."

"How can you say such a thing?" Angelika burst out before she could stop herself. She could stand there and listen to them talk about the Starks like they were filth, but she wouldn't allow her father to say such things about the Greatjon. The words he'd uttered filled her with fury.

Ramsay laughed delightedly. "Oh, she's a spirited one, your daughter."

"Angelika, go wait outside." Smalljon gazed at her, and his blue eyes were hard. It was obvious that he was annoyed at her interruption. Before she could open her mouth and say something else, he held up a hand for silence. "No arguments. Go."

Angelika gathered her skirts in her hands and stomped out of the hall. In truth, she was glad to be away from the awful men, despite the fact that she was curious as to how their conversation would go. Yet if she stayed, she would only object further. She knew that she wouldn't be able to stand there in silence, and her father wouldn't have allowed her to speak up, so she would have been fuming. The frigid winter air soothed her somewhat, and she heaved a deep sigh.

"What happened?" Regan was tending to the horses, blue eyes bright with interest. "What were they saying in there? You look angry."

"Nothing," Angelika murmured. Regan was a clever boy, but politics was beyond his comprehension. Besides, the less that her brother was aware of, the better. Keeping him in the dark was for his own safety. She repeated that to herself every time she wanted to confide in Regan. She could trust him, of course. It was everyone else that she was worried about.

She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Sansa Stark to come back here, only to realise that Winterfell wasn't her home anymore. She didn't want to think about what sort of husband Ramsay Bolton would have been, but she could guess. It sent shivers down her spine, and she pitied the Stark girl even more.

* * *

An insistent knocking at the door made Angelika tense unintentionally. The night had fallen like a cloak over Winterfell, and although she had admired the view of the courtyard, she firmly reminded herself that things were not the same as in the days of House Starks. Rickon and Osha had been taken to the dungeons, and the cogs in Angelika's mind were turning, trying to determine a way to free them. Certainly she would be noticed, so she had to find a way that she wouldn't be.

Angelika crossed over to the door and opened it, scowling when she saw Harald standing there with a white rose in his hand. She was in no mood for his pathetic attempts at wooing her. She had hoped to have her solitude during their stay at Winterfell, but apparently Harald had other ideas. He attempted to present the rose to her.

"For you."

"Thank you, but no." Angelika held up a hand to prevent him from handing the rose over. Accepting the flower would only be encouraging him. She leaned against her door, folding her arms in a gesture that showed Harald how unwelcome he was. "I would prefer to be left alone, ser."

"You're exquisite when you're angry." A smirk curved the corners of Harald's lips, one that she didn't like the look of. Angelika didn't think she was any kind of lovely when she was enraged. She like to think that she was a chaotic mess, like a snowstorm. Beauty faded over time, so it wasn't something she tended to hold in high regard.

"Then I am about to become the most beautiful woman in the world." Angelika planted her hands on her hips and stood tall and proud. "I have no desire to be courted by you, not now, not in the future. You can find your Lady Karstark elsewhere."

Greatjon had never liked Harald Karstark either. He'd said the man was a snivelling idiot and a simpering coward. He was nowhere near as charming as he likely thought he was. Although Angelika knew that she was getting a little old to be fussy about her marriage prospects, she would rather become an old maid than marry a man who had less backbone than she did.

"But it's you I want." He stepped closer, and Angelika narrowed her eyes. His persistence was thoroughly irritating before, but now it was bordering on dangerous. She would have to be a fool not to know that men who were refused often became violent, reckless. She heaved an impatient sigh.

"For the last time, Lord Karstark. Your advances are unwelcome. Take them elsewhere."

Harald lunged at her, and for a brief moment Angelika thought he might hit her. Instead he attempted to press his lips against hers, pinning her against the door, his hands trying to go places where they certainly shouldn't. Angelika landed a hard kick against Harald's shin, making him stagger backwards. She reached down and removed her dagger from her boot, spinning him so that he was the one pressed against the door, a silver blade to his throat. She couldn't help but feel triumphant.

"Did you not hear what I said?" she snapped, digging the dagger in harder so that a trickle of blood appeared underneath its edge, and Harald winced. "I am _not interested_. Try anything like that again, and this dagger will go to some very unwelcome places. Am I being clear now, or do you need me to be even more transparent?"

"No, you're being clear." Harald spat the words. He clearly hated this situation, the situation where he was not in control. This was precisely why the Greatjon had armed Angelika and taught her how to use the dagger she now held. She was no delicate flower to be stepped upon, to wither away. She was a woman who refused to be trampled upon or to simply surrender meekly.

"Good." Angelika offered him a saccharine smile, stepping back and releasing Harald. She watched with some amusement as he rubbed at his throat. She sheathed her dagger, raising her eyebrows expectantly as he glared at her.

"I'm going to ask your father for your hand, you know." Harald's expression was nasty now, lips curving upwards into an ugly sneer. "I see no reason why he would refuse. After all, you are clearly in need of a husband. Someone needs to tame you."

" _Tame_ me?" Angelika hissed, the very words rousing her anger. She was not some wild beast lashing out aimlessly. She was a young woman who knew that men couldn't be trusted, that men were stronger than her and she had to have a weapon with which to defend herself. "Get out."

Harald shot her a smug look as he departed, and Angelika slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it. She wanted to think that her father wouldn't agree if Harald tried to propose marriage. Yet, her father was constantly disappointing her. She wasn't entirely sure what he might do. Crossing over to her bed, Angelika flopped back on it, letting her eyes flutter shut. Her body was weary, but her mind was too occupied with thoughts to let her sleep. Thoughts of flight, thoughts of rebellion.

Angelika remembered when she had gone hunting in the woods with her grandfather. She must have been around Regan's age. They'd been hunting a bear, Greatjon promising Angelika that she could have its fur for her bed. Before they had been able to shoot the beast, it had been set upon by a pack of wolves. The wolves did the work, and Angelika hadn't been able to watch. But she did remember her grandfather's words.

"Let this be a lesson. You're either the predator or the prey."

 _I am the predator_ , Angelika assured herself, over and over to make sure that her breathing was even and the tightness loosened in her chest. _I am the predator._

* * *

Angelika joined her father for breakfast the next morning. According to Ramsay, Sansa had been reunited with Jon Snow at the Wall. She tried to recall the siblings. Sansa she didn't remind, but she vividly remembered throwing a snowball at Jon's face during a winter celebration as a child. He had run off sulking, and she wondered how different he was, how different they all were. War hardened people, that was what her grandfather had always told her.

"Harald Karstark came to speak with me last night." Smalljon looked up from his eggs, arching an eyebrow. "He said you threatened him with a knife."

Angelika couldn't help but smirk. "He speaks the truth."

"He also asked for your hand in marriage." Smalljon went back to his breakfast as Angelika went cold all over. "A bit of an odd combination. Never thought he was a man who got excited by being dominated by a woman, but he's always been a bit of an odd one."

"What did you say?" Angelika asked quietly, dreading the answer. Her father seemed amused by the situation, but him being in a good mood couldn't bode well. Her hands were shaking as she set down her knife and fork. She wanted to be wrong. She wanted to hope that Smalljon had acted selflessly for once.

"I said yes." Smalljon's tone was casual and he leaned back in his seat. "It's a good match."

"A good match." The wooden chair scraped against the stone noisily as Angelika pushed herself to her feet. This wasn't a surprise to her, but that didn't make the news any less unpleasant. "A good match?!"

"You're almost twenty years old, Angelika!" Smalljon thundered, his volume reminding her of his father in that moment. "You'll bloody well marry who I tell you to. We need to solidify alliances in the North, and marrying Harald Karstark is a sure way to do it. Once this business with Sansa Stark and Jon Snow ends, you'll go to Karhold and marry him and that's the end of the matter."

Angelika laughed without mirth. "I'm more a man than Karstark is."

"Ramsay commented on you as well." Smalljon's words caused her to lapse into concerned silence. "His wife is gone, Angelika, and he did remark that you're quite a beauty. Is that what you want? To be Ramsay Bolton's toy? Would you prefer that?"

"I would prefer to have been born a male," Angelika snarled, angry tears welling in her eyes. It sickened her that those were apparently the only options available to her: the toy of a sadistic bastard, or the wife of a snivelling coward. Neither choice appealed to her in the slightest, but she was looking at the lesser of two evils. She was trapped.

"Unfortunately, I didn't have a son," Smalljon snapped, "I got a daughter instead, a daughter who will do as I command."

"You did get a son," Angelika stated, leaning across the table. "You got Regan. But you continue to deny he's even yours. That boy is sweet, he's good…"

"He is weak!" Smalljon tossed his cutlery down, eyes flaring with rage as they did every time Angelika brought up Regan. At least he wasn't trying to deny it this time, as he always had in the past. "If Regan had grown up strong and hard, things might have been different. But he is useless to me. Therefore, he is no son of mine."

Angelika turned and walked out of the room. She had nothing more to say to the man she loathed to call her father. There was no doubt in her mind that if she had to choose between Smalljon and Regan, she would choose Regan a thousand times over. The boy was selfless and compassionate. He didn't have the traits that Smalljon valued, but Angelika knew that Greatjon would have said the same thing as her.

There was no doubt now in Angelika's mind that she had to leave Winterfell. But if she was leaving, she wouldn't be going alone. Her mind turned to Rickon Stark and Osha in the dungeons, to Regan in the stables. It shouldn't come as a surprise to Smalljon. After all, she had been the disobedient daughter for quite some time now. Angelika allowed a small smile to grace her lips as she planned her rebellion.


	3. The North Remembers

**Chapter Three: The North Remembers**

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 **A/N: I'm so sorry that it's been so long since I updated! This was a whirlwind of a chapter and while it's slightly shorter than usual, it's a very emotional one. I hope you'll forgive the time it took to get this finished. I'm still amazed at how wonderful a response this has gotten so far, and while I'm a little nervous updating out of season, I'm hoping at least some of you will leave me feedback! You're awesome :)**

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The dungeon of Winterfell was a godless place. Angelika felt cold seep into her very bones as she traipsed through the waning candlelight, wrapping her fur cloak tighter around her body. Blood was splattered across the stone walls, and there was the foul stench of something rotting on the air. She wrinkled her nose but said nothing. Once perhaps this had been a place where prisoners of House Stark would await trial or judgement. These days it was used as a final resting place, a place where untold horrors were administered by Ramsay's hand.

Angelika had been permitted a visit with Rickon Stark, which had surprised her. She had been expecting she would have to fight tooth and nail for the privilege, or else drug the guard's cup. She was supervised of course, but she would expect nothing less. The guard stood by the door with his arms folded over his chest, scowl of displeasure indicating that if she attempted to do anything daring, he would waste no time in dealing with her.

Angelika tentatively approached Rickon's cell. He was so young, even younger than Regan, and he'd been dealt a harsh hand in life. For now, Rickon was useful to Ramsay alive, but that may not always be the case. She stood by the bars and beckoned. Rickon tensed, obviously nervous, but then approached the bars.

"Angelika. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk." Angelika kept her voice low, knowing that if she was overheard, she would be in trouble. Neither her father nor Ramsay knew of her presence here and although she could feign innocence quite easily, they would want to listen to her conversation far more closely than the guard. "I know that you've been through a lot in these past few years. Your father was executed, your mother and older brother murdered. There has been a lot of injustice visited upon House Stark."

"If we're to speak, I'd prefer you get to the point." Rickon fixed her with a steely gaze that made Angelika smile. A Stark indeed. They were never the sort to play word games.

"Of course." Angelika took a step forward, gripping the filthy bars with both hands. "I want to free you, but unfortunately that is beyond my power. We'd never escape Winterfell, you're far too valuable to Ramsay. But I can offer you the next best thing."

She glanced at the cell beside Rickon's, where the wildling Osha remained unusually silent. She was surprised that the woman hadn't interjected to hiss threats at her, but perhaps she too was interested in hearing what Angelika had to say. Snarling at her would only serve to raise the guard's suspicion. When Angelika looked back to Rickon, his eyes had widened.

"Offer what?"

"Hope." Angelika lowered her voice to a murmur. "I intend to leave Winterfell and find Jon and Sansa."

It was frightening to say it, because voicing her intentions suddenly made them real. Osha was staring openly at her. The hint of a smile curved the corners of Rickon's lips. In truth, Angelika knew that it might take her some time – while Sansa had ridden north to the Wall, there had been reports since that indicated a large party had since left. Angelika couldn't guess where they were going, but she supposed they might be trying to ally with some of the northern houses.

"You are?" Rickon sounded as though he hardly dared to believe it.

"My grandfather, the Greatjon, was one of the first to proclaim Robb the King in the North." Angelika stepped away from the bars. "My father might lightly toss his loyalty aside, but I'm not like him. I believe in honour, and there is none siding with the Boltons. I will return with them to see you become the new Lord of Winterfell."

She turned and walked away from the cell, raising her eyebrows coolly at the quizzical stare of the guard. He stepped in path to prevent her from exiting, making Angelika tense. Surely he could not have overheard the conversation from the door.

"What did you say to him?"

"He's a child." Angelika kept her voice gentle. "A frightened child at that. I only soothed his fears. Is that a crime now?"

"Watch yourself, Lady Umber," the man warned, but he moved aside and allowed her to exit the dungeon. Her heart pounding violently in her chest, Angelika breathed a sigh of relief. The first part of her plan was complete, but there were far more steps before she could say she'd been successful.

* * *

Angelika kept her pack light enough to carry without being a burden. Some bread and water for the most part, her knife stashed in its usual position in her boot. The pack was small enough that she could hide it under her cloak when she claimed that she was taking a stroll around Winterfell. It made her sad to see that a once marvellous castle, probably full of life and laughter, had become such a dismal place.

She had told no one but Rickon and Osha of her plan. The only other person she could trust was Regan, and wanted to keep her brother safe. He was best kept in the dark, for if he had no involvement in her plan then he would not be punished. She would return for Regan too, because he shouldn't even be in Winterfell in the first place. She wished that he would have remained at Last Hearth where the threat of danger was far less.

Angelika waited for the guard to change before she slipped out through the front gates, into the darkness and the unknown. Surely no one would miss her much. Her father had always wanted a son, and her only value to him had been as a bride for a man she despised. He would be angry that she had left, yet perhaps he hoped she would die out there in the cold, that it would be easier for him than to have a rebellious daughter.

The prospect of her great venture terrified her. She had no idea where Sansa and Jon were, but she had to look. It was no secret to her that there were some in Last Hearth who did not approve of her father's choice of overlord. There were those who, if she commanded it, would gladly join forces with the Starks once again. Smalljon was a taint, an embarrassment to the family name. She might not be a boy, but she was trueborn and her name was still respected in Last Hearth – and hopefully, in some of the other northern holds.

"Angelika!" The taunting voice rang out into the night, making her freeze and glance over her shoulder. Although she was far enough away that she couldn't be seen amidst the thickness of the trees, it was earlier than she had hoped her absence would be noted. There were a few torches burning on the parapet, and what she saw there made her stomach twist.

Ramsay was standing up there, with two of his men and…Regan. She couldn't see her younger brother's expression, but she imagined it was resolute and fierce. Angelika tensed, hardly daring to breathe. She didn't know why Regan was there, but it certainly wasn't good. Ramsay had a hand rested on one of his shoulders. If it had been anyone else, Angelika might have suspected she had been sold out, but Regan would never have done that to her. Not even if he had become aware that she'd left.

"I know you can hear me, Angelika. Why don't you stop this silly game and come back? Your father would be grateful for it, and I'm sure young Regan would as well."

"Don't listen to him." It was Regan's voice, defiant. Angelika's eyes were glued to the parapet and she felt colder than ever, a chill running down her spine. Ramsay pulled out something that shone in the light of the torches, making a show of the way it glinted. There could be no mistaking that it was a knife.

It was no secret to Angelika what Ramsay intended to do if she didn't return to Winterfell. The thought made her feel sick to the core – yet she knew her mission was more important. Find Jon and Sansa, pledge the allegiance of the troops she had, tell them about Rickon and take back Winterfell. Clearly, she was not as unimportant as she had hoped. Was this because of Harald's proposal, or a general suspicion that she was going to stir trouble if she fled? Either way, it made Angelika's stomach twist unpleasantly at the knowledge that she was going to have to choose between Regan's life and her determination to rid the North of the Boltons.

"Let me be clearer. If you don't come back to Winterfell now, I will kill Regan."

Angelika could feel tears welling in her eyes and she furiously blinked them away. She wanted to run back to Winterfell, to surrender to Ramsay and whatever punishment he might dole out for her attempt at escape. It would certainly make sure Regan survived – or would it? Ramsay was a cruel man, what was to say he would spare Regan even if she did return to Winterfell? She would have walked right into his trap, throwing away everything and gaining nothing. It was a huge risk, and one that she could not afford to take.

Raising her shaking arms to wrap around herself, Angelika let the tears slide down her cheeks. She would not look away. This was the cost for her decision, and she could only hope to the Old Gods that it was the right one. She could not allow Ramsay's tyranny over the North to continue. She loved Regan with all her heart, a heart that was now breaking at the knowledge that she was going to lose him.

In one swift, brutal movement, Ramsay drew the knife across Regan's throat, carving a crimson line as he went. Angelika pressed her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound of her devastated sobs, her entire body shaking with the force of her grief. Ramsay gave Regan's body an unceremonious push off the edge of the parapet. She turned away at the sickening crunch. Angelika had to bite down on her hand to stop herself from screaming out her horror and wrath.

Regan, her baby brother, who she'd protected since they'd been children. He had been unloved by their father. Would Smalljon feel anything at the death of his bastard son? The thought of his nonchalance made Angelika boil with rage. Yet, what right did she have to be angry at her father? She'd had a choice, and she had chosen to let Regan die. The realisation of her guilt hit her with the force of a punch and she drew her hands away from her mouth to vomit into the snow. All those years spent protecting Regan and right when he needed her the most, she had failed him.

The sound of dogs barking pulled Angelika from her grief. There would be time to mourn Regan and reflect on what she'd done later. Right now, she needed to escape before Ramsay's dogs hunted her down and ripped her apart. Yanking her map out of her pack, she consulted it carefully before deciding on her destination. Shoving it back, she began to run. It wasn't something she could keep up forever, yet she would do it anyway. Her lungs burned and her legs ached in protest, but she ignored them. To stop running would be to consign herself to death, and render Regan's sacrifice unimportant.

Hooves thundering on the ground made Angelika stiffen. Dogs she might be able to outrun, but certainly not horses. Despite the odds being stacked against her, she never once stopped running, not until the horses drew up to her. Two men in Bolton colours, one astride each horse. They circled her, like a vulture above its prey, before one of them dismounted.

"Lady Umber, you must accompany us back to the castle."

Angelika knelt in the snow like she was surrendering, but her entire body was quivering with an anger she had never known before. Regan had been an innocent, and so it had been his life Ramsay had taken. She had never been more certain that the Boltons would suffer for this, that the North would once again belong to the Starks. The first man approached her and Angelika ripped the knife from her boot and launched at him with a fierce battle cry. His eyes widened and his hand reached for his sword, but Angelika had the element of surprise. She stabbed him in the side of the face and when he collapsed, he didn't get up again.

The other man dismounted his horse in haste – so much haste, in fact, that his foot got caught in the stirrup and he stumbled. Angelika pounced on him before he could right himself or draw his sword. Her knife stabbed and stabbed in a violent frenzy, until she was blood-spattered and sobbing over the second corpse she'd created – the third, if she counted Regan.

Wiping her nose on her sleeve, Angelika knew that she didn't have much time before the dogs caught up with her. She swung herself up onto the first man's horse and tugged at the reins, urging it into a gallop. The further away from Winterfell she was, the more hopeful she would feel that her quest hadn't been in vain. Yet Regan's death played over and over in her mind, haunting her, driving her.

* * *

It was well into the following morning before Angelika eased her stiff, store body from the saddle, confident that the dogs weren't still tailing her. A branch had lashed across her face the night before and she'd snapped it off and tied it to her horse's tail, praying that the marks would erase any hoof prints in the snow. Her legs were weak when she made contact with the ground and she collapsed, falling to her knees. She had not allowed herself to grieve before, so it was time now to let everything out.

Angelika threw her head back and howled into peaceful quiet of the woods. She beat her fists bloody against the trunk of the nearest tree, but all the cuts and splinters in the world wouldn't have caused her as much pain as the knowledge that Regan was dead. She raged and she sobbed until every part of her body hurt and her face was puffy and a mess of snot and tears. Exhausted, she collapsed into the snow. The icy cold was somehow a comfort. Part of her wanted to die there, the part that was guilty over what had happened to Regan.

Yet that would be letting Ramsay and her father and all the other cruel men like them win. It was something that, no matter how sick she felt over Regan's death and how disgusted she was at her own involvement, Angelika could not allow. She would keep fighting, and Regan's death would mean something. It would not be in vain. She couldn't let that happen.

She couldn't say how much time had passed before she eased herself up out of the snow. Angelika wanted to despair over Regan's death for much longer, but practicality gave her a reason to keep moving. Her destination was Deepwood Motte, and the sooner she reached that destination, the better. Cleaning her face on her sleeve, Angelika took several deep breaths to calm herself. She allowed herself a small portion of the bread, and fed some to her horse. After letting her horse rest, she hoped that she would be at Deepwood Motte later that night if not the next morning. It was a small comfort, considering the cost of her journey.

The men she had killed had been the first. She had brandished her knife as a threat, but she'd never actually had to use it to end lives. It had been quick and it had been horrific. The thought made her stomach turn, and she thought she might vomit up the bread she'd just forced down. Angelika hadn't meant to become a killer, but it was out of their lives and hers, and she had known which she must choose. The brutality of it disagreed with her entirely. She didn't know how men could stomach it in war. Angelika rubbed at her face, hoping that their blood had come off. She was already appearing before Lord Glover a mess, she didn't need to be bloodstained too.

Kneeling down in front of the tree she'd previously been beating with furious fists, Angelika clasped her sore hands in prayer. She didn't know if the gods were listening, but if they were, now was the time to ask for their favour. She closed her eyes and collected herself, the chirps of the birds making her momentarily oblivious to the urgency of her mission and the heartache that she was feeling.

"I am so sorry for what I have done." Angelika's voice was hoarse and grated on her ears, but she spoke on nonetheless. "I have taken the lives of men who were just serving a cruel master, but I did it in self-defence. If…if Regan is with you now, please remind him that I love him. I never wanted him to die feeling unloved."

She choked back more tears that threatened to fall, finding it difficult to compose herself when she spoke of her little brother. Regan had been the light in her life, but now his brightness had been snuffed out. She could only hope that his end had been swift and that he was now in the care of the gods.

Opening her eyes, Angelika pushed herself to her feet and headed back over to her horse. She clambered into the saddle and stroked the creature's mane. Sometimes she'd been afraid it would bolt back to Winterfell, but it hadn't done so yet. Taking up the reins once more, she urged the horse in the direction of Deepwood Motte.


	4. Bear Island

**Chapter Four: Bear Island**

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 **A/N: Hope you didn't think I'd forgotten about Angelika! This chapter she and Jon finally meet, and she'll have more interaction with Sansa soon too. I know it's been over a year since I last updated, but a lot has happened over that time so I hope you can forgive the late update. Thank you all so much - I never expected to have over 60 reviews, over 200 favourites and over 300 follows in just 3 chapters. You're all so amazing. Please let me know what you think of this chapter, there should be another coming soon enough, fingers crossed.**

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Angelika had never been to Deepwood Motte. She'd never had reason to. As the portcullis opened to allow her entry, she attempted to compose herself before Lord Glover. No doubt she was red-eyed and straggly-haired from the time she'd spent in the cold. Tugging her cloak more tightly around herself, Angelika slipped off her horse and gazed around the courtyard.

A middle-aged man descended the stairs, his face vaguely familiar to her. She supposed that this must be Robett Glover. His older brother and the former Lord of Deepwood Motte, Galbart Glover had been slaughtered during the Red Wedding. The new Lord Glover's brows were furrowed as Angelika approached, offering a stiff inclination of her head to acknowledge him.

"Lady Angelika. I must say, I was quite surprised when my men alerted to me to the fact that you were at the gate. Do you come on behalf of your father?"

"No." Angelika straightened up, the stiffness in her shoulders and back reminding her of just how difficult the journey here had been. "I come of my own accord. I come from Winterfell."

"For what purpose?" Robett folded his arms over his chest. If she had been expecting a warm welcome, she was disappointed. The reception had been as frosty as the snows she had been travelling in. She knew that House Glover had undergo a lot during the past few years, yet she was beginning to feel that the spark of hope she'd harboured was about to be snuffed out.

"For the purpose of restoring honour to the North." Angelika was not used to this sort of interaction. She had no idea how to convince the Glovers to support her in what could be considered a revolt. Yet she had to hope that there were others in the North who were just as displeased by what had occurred. "The Boltons do not belong in Winterfell. The Starks do, and it's high time that we restored their power."

"Are you touched, girl?" Lord Glover's expression had quickly gone from suspicious to alarmed. "You can't speak that way about the Boltons. Not here. Not now. Things are different. The Starks fell at the Red Wedding. The Boltons helped us win Deepwood Motte back from the Ironborn."

Despite having full awareness that she was fighting a losing battle, Angelika persisted. She couldn't have come here for nothing, she couldn't have abandoned Regan for nothing. She couldn't leave Rickon trapped in the dungeons. She couldn't let Sansa and Jon die. Her actions would have consequence, in some form or another.

"While I understand that…"

"No, you don't understand that." Lord Glover's tone was as sharp as his eyes. "Lady Angelika, what you speak of is treason. Out of respect for your family, I will pretend that I heard nothing you said here today. But you must return to Winterfell and your father. You speak of a fantasy."

"But the Starks…"

"They're gone." Lord Glover waved a dismissive hand. "They lost the war. Their time is over. Robb Stark made sure of that when he broke his vow to Walder Frey. We have only just recovered from the Ironborn invasion, do you really think I'd risk the few men that I have at my disposal for such a ridiculous idea?"

"He killed my brother," Angelika murmured softly. She knew it didn't matter to anyone but her, but it still _mattered_. "Ramsay Bolton murdered Regan in front of me."

Lord Glover's expression softened slightly. "I am sorry to hear that, Angelika, but my answer remains the same. I cannot help you. I will not. The best I can do is give you provisions for your return journey and a bed for the night, and you'd do well to be grateful I even offer that."

"I understand." Angelika bowed her head as if in defeat, but the cogs in her mind were turning faster than ever. She could not stay here in Deepwood Motte, but that had only been her closest destination. There was somewhere else she could go, somewhere she had family, somewhere they valued loyalty and might just listen to what she had to say.

Bear Island.

* * *

Angelika did not have much in the way of money with her, but gaining passage to Bear Island hadn't been as difficult as she'd imagined. She'd had to part with some of her mother's jewellery, yet she considered that a small price to pay. She travelled across on a small fishing boat, and was immediately enraptured by the place.

She had of course heard stories from her grandfather about how beautiful Bear Island was, that it had a dense forest and several waterfalls. The view from the castle was said to be quite spectacular. Yet stories did not do the island justice, and Angelika felt intimidated for the first time since her escape from Winterfell. Would her blood relation be enough for her to be granted an audience?

Since the death of Maege Mormont, her ten-year-old daughter Lyanna had been ruling Bear Island in her stead. Jeor Mormont served with the Night's Watch, and Jeor's son Jorah had been exiled. It had fascinated Angelika that a child so young could be responsible for an island, yet she expected that Lyanna – named for Eddard Stark's sister – had advisers to guide her. Greatjon had always said not to underestimate the Mormonts.

Angelika didn't know if she was brave enough for this. Everything had felt so easy with Regan by her side, Regan cracking jokes and lightening her mood. It was the thought of Regan that pushed her on. Her grandfather would never have allowed a reign of terror in the North. For him, for her brother who had died far before his time, Angelika would see this through.

A dark-haired young girl sat at the table, a maester to one side of her and another middle-aged man to the other. Angelika licked her dry lips and plastered a smile across her lips as she moved into the hall. She pushed aside her fears and her doubts, praying to the Old Gods that she would receive a better reception here than she had at Deepwood Motte.

"Lady Mormont." She bowed her head, before raising it to meet the girl's dark gaze. "My name is Angelika Umber. My grandmother Rhea was your mother's sister…"

"I know who you are." The girl's voice was sharp, and Angelika had to carefully school her features to mask her surprise. Whatever she had anticipated from Lyanna, she had not thought the young girl was bold. It was a pleasant surprise. "So tell me, cousin. What brings you to Bear Island?"

Angelika had made careful observations on her way in. There were very few guards in Mormont colours, leading her to believe that a lot of their fighting men had been wiped out during the Red Wedding. She could not in good faith as these people to fight a battle, even if it was not for her. So what was her plan now? She was here, and she could not have wasted her journey for nothing.

"I seek shelter."

"Bear Island is becoming host to far too many visitors." The maester scowled disapprovingly. "First you, now we receive a raven from Sansa Stark and Jon Snow…"

Lyanna held up a hand, and the man lapsed into silence. In other circumstances, she might have found it amusing and admirable that such a young girl could have such a level of complete control. Yet all that Angelika could think about was that Lyanna was only a few years younger than Regan. Regan, who had going plummeting over the battlements. Regan, whose body likely still lay in the snow, forgotten.

The maester's words, however contemptuous, sparked Angelika's curiosity. So the Mormonts were in communication with Jon and Sansa. The idea that they may be on their way gave her the hope she had been searching for. She could never convince the Mormonts to help retake the North on her own – but perhaps the very people she was fighting to restore could do that themselves.

"Shelter from who?" Lyanna asked.

"My father and the Boltons," Angelika admitted, "If Jon and Sansa are on their way here, then perhaps there's a chance…"

"That's a conversation for me to have with them." Lyanna cut her off. "I can offer you shelter, Angelika, but nothing more. If they come for you, I can't make any promise to defend you. Bear Island doesn't have the men to fight a war."

Grateful to be even permitted sanctuary, a tight smiled tugged at the corners of Angelika's lips. It was true that taking back the North was not her conversation to have, and so she would leave that to Jon and Sansa. Part of her was excited and nervous at the prospect of meeting them – she thought perhaps she might have when she was very small, yet she couldn't quite remember.

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lady."

Lyanna offered a small smile of her own. "We are family, after all."

"All the same, I'd like to meet them when they arrive at Bear Island." Angelika glanced along the table. The maester did not appear pleased by the suggestion, but Lyanna nodded. She leaned forward, examining her cousin curiously.

"Your father is one of the Boltons' fiercest supporters." The question remained unasked, but Angelika knew it was there. She was the daughter of a traitor, a man who'd turned his back on the Starks to hold favour with the current power in the North. Lyanna wanted to know why Angelika had run.

"I had a younger brother, Regan." It still hurt to speak his name. Every time she thought of her brother, it was like a hundred cold knives in her stomach, digging and twisting. "Perhaps a few years older than you. He was a bastard, but it was common knowledge that Smalljon was his father. Ramsay slit his throat and threw his body off the parapet. That was the moment I knew that leaving was the right thing to do."

"I'm glad you're with us," Lyanna said, "I am sorry for your loss. But you have learned like us that the Boltons are not the sort of men to bend the knee to. Neither was Stannis Baratheon. We know no King in the North but the King whose name is Stark."

Angelika hoped that they could free Rickon, yet she couldn't be certain that it would come to pass. He was a true-born son and the more she thought about it, the less she believed that Ramsay would let him live. He was a piece on a chessboard, a pawn. The ultimate power move to use against Jon and Sansa should they choose to go to war. A power move that Angelika would undermine completely.

* * *

It felt odd to Angelika, being able to sleep with her door unlocked. She still kept her dagger on her person at all times, for she could never be too certain that someone might not turn her in to Ramsay Bolton. Yet she felt safer than she had in quite some time. It was a strange feeling, to feel at home in a place she'd never been, in a place so far away from her actual home. Yet Last Hearth hadn't felt the same since Greatjon had died.

Over the past few days, Lyanna's advisers had slowly warmed to her. Maester Kertis had initially been suspicious of her, yet he'd come to realise that Angelika was no danger to the population of Bear Island, at least not unless her father or the Boltons came for her. Angelika doubted that they would. Hopefully they would just assume she had died in the cold and move on.

The day that the Starks arrived on Bear Island was the day was perhaps one of the most nerve-wracking she'd experienced. Angelika stood in the shadows underneath one of the proud Mormont banners and watched as the Stark retinue entered the hall. A dark-haired young man with a beard and a grim expression – this must be Jon Snow. The auburn-haired girl with him was of an age with Angelika, tall and beautiful. There was no doubting that this was Sansa. They were accompanied by an older man with grey hair and a beard that Angelika did not recognise.

"Lady Mormont." It was Jon who spoke, inclining his head to the young girl at the table.

"Welcome to Bear Island."

For a few moments, an awkward silence stretched out, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire and the birdsong outside. Angelika glanced between the two groups, wishing she could interject but knowing that it was not her place. She was here to observe, not participate. Jon looked to Sansa, who was more than likely the diplomat of the pair.

"I remember when you were born, my lady. You were named for my aunt Lyanna. It was said she was a great beauty and I'm sure you will be too."

"I doubt it." Lyanna's tone was impatient, and Angelika felt a swell of pride in her cousin for being unmoved by flattery. It would be useful to her in a few years, when suitors came trying to woo her for the promise of Bear Island. "My mother wasn't a great beauty or any other kind of beauty. She was a great warrior though. She died fighting for your brother Robb."

Sansa and Jon exchanged looks, clearly troubled. This time, it was Jon that spoke.

"I served under your uncle at Castle Black, Lady Lyanna. He was also a great warrior and an honourable man. I was his steward, in fact…"

Lyanna cut him off. "I think we've had enough small talk. Why are you here?"

"Stannis Baratheon garrisoned at Castle Black before he marched on Winterfell and was killed. He showed me the letter you wrote to him when he petitioned for men, it said…"

"I remember what it said. Bear Island knows no King in the North but the King whose name is Stark."

"Robb is gone but House Stark is not and it needs your support now more than ever. I have come with my sister to ask for House Mormont's allegiance."

Lyanna looked to her maester, who leaned in to whisper something in her ear. The sound of his heavy chain jingling was all that could be heard within the dimly-lit hall.

"As far as I understand, you're a Snow, and Lady Sansa is a Bolton. Or is she a Lannister? I've heard conflicting reports."

"I did what I had to do to survive, my lady." Sansa's expression was cool. She had clearly felt stung by Lyanna's words. "I am a Stark. I will always be a Stark."

"If you say so. In any case, you don't just want my allegiance, you want my fighting men."

"Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell, my lady." Jon's tone was more passionate this time, and Angelika could near feel his hatred of the Boltons, almost as strong as her own. "It is our duty to stop him. Even more so because he holds our brother Rickon Stark as prisoner."

 _They already knew._ Of course they knew. It had been ridiculous of Angelika to think that Ramsay wouldn't have used Rickon as a taunt against them. Perhaps it wasn't a power move at all, but Ramsay having the intention of riling them up and getting them to act desperately to save their brother. Had he not done the same with Regan? Taunting Angelika before he committed the despicable act?

"What you have to understand, my lady, is…"

"I understand that I am responsible for Bear Island and all who live here. So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for someone else's war?"

Angelika stepped forward before she could stop herself. Although Lyanna had made no promise to assist Jon and Sansa, this was not how Angelika hoped this conversation would go. She understood her cousin, of course she did. Yet what did hiding away on Bear Island accomplish? They would not swear to the Boltons, but they would not fight for the Starks. What kind of life was that? It was mere survival.

In the quiet hall it must have made a noise, for Jon Snow's head turned in her direction. For a moment their eyes met. He looked curious, brow furrowed into a frown as though he intended to ask who she was. Angelika moved back into the shadows. She was not of consequence in this conversation.

"If it please my lady, I understand how you feel." The older man with Jon and Sansa stepped forward as the duo remained silent.

"I don't know you. Ser…?"

"Davos, of House Seaworth." When the dark-haired girl looked to her maester for clarification, Davos continued. "You needn't ask your maester about my house, it's rather new."

Lyanna leaned back in her seat. "Alright, Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how I feel?"

"You never thought you'd find yourself in your position. Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age. I never thought I'd be in my position. I was a crabber's son, then I was a smuggler, and now I find myself addressing the lady of a great house in a time of war. But I'm here because this isn't someone else's war. It's our war."

Angelika wondered if her cousin was going to dismiss him as well, but Lyanna was nodding. Perhaps what this man had to say had her interested. She'd certainly reacted more positively than she had with Jon and Sansa, who looked rather surprised at Lyanna's next words.

"Go on, Ser Davos."

Jon caught Angelika's eye again. They both smiled. Perhaps there was hope for House Stark and for the North after all.

* * *

Feasts had never been something Angelika enjoyed. At home in Last Hearth, they'd been full of drunk men and crude jokes. On Bear Island, it was much smaller, more of a dinner than a proper celebration of anything. She should have felt victorious, knowing that they would restore the Starks to power in the North. Yet as Angelika stood out on the balcony with a mug of ale in her hand, marvelling once more at Bear Island's beauty, she couldn't stop thinking about Regan's sacrifice.

Would things have been different if she had gone back? Could she truly have spared Regan? The possibility was a poison, seeping into her veins and making her feel sick to the stomach. It was a notion she couldn't entertain, because it would destroy her from the inside out. The past was the past. Regan was dead, and she couldn't bring him back. The only thing she could do was what she was doing right now – plotting to destroy Ramsay Bolton once and for all.

"You were in the hall earlier." The man's voice made Angelika start, almost sloshing her ale as she spun to face an apologetic Jon Snow. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I just wasn't expecting company." Angelika leaned against the stone ledge. The waterfalls were perhaps her favourite part of the Bear Island scenery, and the frequent birdsong brought her a level of comfort and peace.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Angelika Umber." She tore her gaze away from the waterfalls to see Jon's reaction. Would there be distaste in his eyes upon realising she was related to Smalljon? Would there be sympathy? Or would he acknowledge that people weren't their parents? "My grandmother was from House Mormont, so when I came to terms with the fact that what was happening in the North was wrong, I came here."

"What was it that prompted you?" Jon asked.

Angelika took a deep gulp from her mug, relishing the way the ale burned its way down her throat. She wasn't ready to talk about Regan again, not with him. She'd uttered her dead brother's name more times than she thought she'd been able to bear already. Regan's death was a story for another time, because it hadn't been Regan's death that had driven her away.

"My father was the one who captured Rickon." Angelika set her mug down on the ledge. "I know that my grandfather was one of Robb's most adamant supporters. Once my father delivered Rickon to Ramsay…I realised that it was something I couldn't be a part of. My father betrayed my grandfather's legacy, and I'm attempting to atone for my father's crimes."

"They weren't your crimes," Jon reminded her gently.

"People still died for them." Angelika's voice was soft and she could see by Jon's expression that he wanted to ask, but then thought the better of it. For a few moments, they both leaned against the ledge and listened to the tranquil sounds of Bear Island. She could almost pretend they could stay here forever, but the peace only existed here. Beyond this place, war ravaged Westeros, and she could never forget that.

"You're Smalljon's only child, from what I recall."

Angelika glanced at him suspiciously. "Only legitimate child, yes. I am the heir of Last Hearth. Should my father fall in battle…"

The idea of inheriting Last Hearth was both exciting and terrifying. She wanted to be a better lady than her father had been a lord. She wanted to live up to the reputation of her feared grandfather, rest his soul. The idea of a woman inheriting a castle would not agree with some, and they would complain. Yet Mormont blood flowed through Angelika's veins too, the blood of great warrior women. She may not be a fighter herself, but she could be a leader.

"There are still men of Last Hearth who would follow you." Angelika's words made Jon's head snap in her direction. "Men who believe in the Starks, men who were loyal to my grandfather."

"I wouldn't ask you to…"

"You don't need to ask me to do anything." Angelika stepped closer, chin tilted proudly upwards. "I do it because I want to restore peace and prosperity to the North, and Ramsay Bolton will never deliver either of those things. He's a monster, plain and simple. It's not you I'm doing this for, it's the North."

 _For Regan, for Rickon, for the innocents who will die if Ramsay remains in power._

"You're brave." Jon sounded as though he admired her tenacity, a smile curving the corners of his lips. "Braver than I could be. If you hadn't already told me you had Mormont blood, I'd have made the assumption. You and Lyanna aren't so different."

Angelika took that as high praise, but untrue. Jon didn't know how she'd fled Winterfell. Jon didn't know that she had left Rickon behind, that she had stood by frozen in terror as Ramsay murdered her little brother. There were a lot of unsavoury things that Jon didn't know and was better off not knowing. Let him think she was brave. She was a survivor, nothing more.

"Kind of you to say so." Angelika finished her ale, rubbing her arms as a sudden chill ran up her spine. Winter was certainly here, even in remote places like Bear Island. The warm hearth in the hall beckoned Angelika, and she couldn't resist its inviting allure. With one last brief glance at the enigma that was Jon Snow, she retreated back inside.


End file.
